


Operation Banjaxed

by Deannie



Category: The Losers (2010), The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Pre-Canon, So is Jake, army days, snipers are awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 13:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: Three special operations collide. (Ooo, shorter description than my usual. :P )
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Operation Banjaxed

**Author's Note:**

> Jimmy Hanratty appears in my Mag 7 fic [A History of Falling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425856). This fic takes place a few years before the Afghanistan portions of that one.

He didn’t wake up willingly. 

On the other hand, they hadn’t woken him up by dunking him in a tank of freezing water this morning, so that was an improvement. He was alone in his cell and dawn had already broken a while ago, by the look of it. They were normally all over him by now. 

Maybe they were getting tired of hearing name, rank, and serial number.

He realized, though, that the comings and goings outside had increased at some point during the night. He rose carefully, balancing on his one good leg, and peered out the tiny window. There were more men out there today, definitely. Though damned if he knew what that meant. He wasn’t even really sure what local warlord had him. 

Operation Bandit—or Banjaxed, as his best friend liked to call it—was big. Very big. All snipers on deck, full radio silence, and damn their units left behind for the duration. He’d been tracking his objective for a week, had been  _ this close _ to finishing the deal… and then he’d been caught up in a skirmish between local crews. And ended up here. He slid back down the wall and coughed, feeling the crackles in his chest that meant he’d been dunked one too many times.

He didn’t bother to survey the sandblasted room again. He had it pretty much memorized: white walls, wood ceiling, dirt floor. Two windows, each too small for even his skinny butt to shimmy through and crossed with iron bars pitted by desert wind storms, one door—an actual door, not a rug like with most of the houses in this poor, terrorized province. The door had a lock, but he’d been kept captive for at least a couple of weeks (Maybe? He had a hard time keeping track.), fed almost nothing, and was shackled to the wall by three limbs. 

Even if his right leg hadn’t been shot to hell, he wasn’t going anywhere.

And of course, no one would be looking for him. That was the rule. You go out, you acquire your target, you make it back or you don’t. He didn’t even have a long-range radio on him. Fly silent, under the radar, and do your job. Or fail, and hope your body’s found for burial.

Not that he’d been worried. His team would tell you, he was  _ very _ good at his job. He’d figured to be in and out in a week. Two, tops. He had far too high an opinion of himself, as it turned out.

Well, he was paying for it now. He’d rot here before he was found, if he didn’t die of inhaling water at some point. He tried not to feel the walls close in on him at the thought. No more double dates or bad movie nights or poker for guns...

_ He really  _ wasn’t _ going anywhere. _

************

“I am owed a full steak dinner when we get back to Germany.  _ With _ beer.”

Pooch looked up as Jensen opened the door with a flourish and made his announcement.

“With beer, huh?” Pooch snorted, going back to his book.

“You ever think your standards are dropping a little, there, Jensen?” Roque wondered. He was reading, too: a gun magazine, because, well… he was Roque.

“I take it you found him.” Clay said quietly, looking up from his game of solitaire. 

Jensen walked over to the small fridge in their inglorious hovel and grabbed a soda. “Was there any doubt?” He took a sip and waved the bottle at the rest of them before Pooch could respond. “No, don’t answer that. But yes, I found him.” He whipped a piece of paper out of his back pocket—again, Pooch was certain he did it only because it made it all the more dramatic. “Sayed Muhammad al Rashti. One asshole warlord, ripe for the picking.”

Clay unfolded the printout and spread it flat on the table, and Pooch wandered over, along with Roque, to see what the place looked like. After a long minute of perusing the satellite image, Pooch looked at Jensen in the normal way—like the kid was batshit crazy

“Those two dots there?” Pooch asked, though he knew damn well what they were.

“Gun emplacements,” J replied calmly.

“And here?” Clay asked, gesturing to two more dots.

“Probably sniper towers.”

Roque snorted. “Any handy munitions dump to get our asses blown to Hell?”

J pointed to a large white tent. “That’d be there.” He looked around at all of them. “Come on! With the cliffs around it, it’ll be like target practice in a shooting gallery. It’s pure militia, too. Not a civilian in sight and no more than a dozen guys. It’ll be easy.”

“If we had Cougar, it’d be easy,” Clay grumbled. He looked like he instantly regretted opening his mouth.

Well, that sure as hell brought the room down. 

Jensen didn’t move, just stared at the map like he was wishing their sniper would suddenly appear on it. Cougar had been loaned out to a massive op about a month ago. Full radio silence.

J had been a fucking basketcase for the first two weeks, talking nonstop and generally driving them all crazy. It got worse when the first of the snipers was confirmed KIA. And the second. And the third. Clay had finally convinced the higher-ups to assign the team, short-handed as it was, to anything— _ anything _ . Just keep the kid busy until Cougar finished his task and got the hell back to them.

“All right,” Clay said quietly, looking at the printout. “We go.”

“We  _ what _ ?” Roque asked, horrified.

Pooch could have saved him the trouble. Clay was going to do what he could to keep them together while Cougar was gone. Keep them from thinking about the notice they’d get if Cougar was added to the statistics and they found themselves without him for good.

“I said we go, Roque,” Clay repeated, locking eyes with his second in command. “You have a problem with that?”

Roque glared at him for a minute, then glanced at Jensen, whose back was stiff as a board as he refused to look up at the rest of them.

“No,” he said finally. “No problem.” He grinned fatalistically. “What the hell, right? Might as well go out with a bang.”

*********

His usual torturers, more brawn than brains but skilled at their job, had come busting in the door a couple of hours late. He wanted to ask why the delay, but of course, they had no time for chitchat. He was unshackled and their torture device of choice was brought in.

“Who is your target?” Tweedle Dumb grated. His English wasn’t getting any better. 

But at least things were back to normal. He gave his name, rank, and serial number again, half a second before his head was dumped back in the bucket of ice water. That had to cost a fortune out here. Electricity was scarce, and almost no one wasted it on their freezer.

The door opened as he was catching his breath, and a tall, skinny man he hadn’t seen before grabbed him by his long hair and wrenched his head up. His Pashto wasn’t great—they hadn’t been in-country long enough for him to really get it down yet—but the guy said something about him being alone or having time alone or something.

Which suited him just fine. Until Dumb and Dumber hauled him up between them and dragged him to the door. Once outside, he tried to get a quick feel of the camp, since they’d captured him under cover of night and never let him out of the room with the tiny windows. It was hard to get his bearings, but it looked like they were in a gorge, the cliffs deep and white on the two sides he could see clearly. The place was tiny—one other building and a couple of tents. A couple of towers and guns.... Shitload of firepower. And definitely more people than he’d thought. A couple dozen at least. Two tents were being erected as he was moved past, so maybe the increase in population was a new development.

Dumb and Dumber dragged him toward the edge of the camp and he wondered where the hell they were going. Maybe he hadn’t understood the guy after all. 

The tall one got ahead of them and strode forward to pull open a round, black door on the ground, more than a hundred yards from the camp and in full sun. An oven in the sand.  _ Shit _ . 

Or maybe he had understood just fine.

“You take time to think about it,” Tall One said in better English than he’d heard in weeks. “Now that I am here, perhaps we will get some answers.”

The thugs dragged him toward the  _ way too small _ hole in the ground and he measured it with a sniper’s eye. He wouldn’t be able to stand—he might not even be able to sit. He was thrown in hard enough to wring a scream from him as his shot up leg crumpled under him.

And then there was a punishing clang above him, the sound of a lock being thrown, and a hell of a lot of darkness.

He’d always been a man of few words—the guys were always giving him trouble for it—and right now, only one word really covered what was happening anyway.

“Fuck.”

************

Jake watched the desert go by below them as the helicopter brought them as close as they dared to al Rashti’s camp. He tried to focus on the mission. He tried to focus on the plan. He tried to focus on anything but why the hell they were one man short.

He checked his rifle, refusing to think about the fact that Cougar had been helping him work on his long-range skills before the sniper had been farmed out… Jake shook his head in irritation. The four of them would split up as soon as they got close, surround the camp from the cliffs above, and take it down. Simple. Easy.

_ “If we had Cougar, it’d be easy.” _

Mexican son of a bitch better be okay, Jake thought, failing in his attempt to think about something else. Three of the snipers in that stupid-ass operation were already dead. Three more were considered MIA…

“Drop zone coming up,” the pilot barked out. “Looks clear.”

“Chatter, Jensen?” Clay’s voice was dull and quiet over the engines.

This would be a hell of a lot easier with five of them.

“Jensen!” Clay repeated, an edge to his voice. 

Jake cursed himself and cranked the volume on his souped-up radio. 

“No, sir,” he said after a long moment of listening. He watched Roque and Pooch get ready for the drop and tried to suck it up and  _ focus _ . 

Clay pegged him with a look. “Swear to God, you get yourself shot up because your head wasn’t in it and we are going to have words.”

Jake nodded, refocusing  _ again _ . 

“And if you get anybody else killed, I’m coming after your ass, ghost or no,” Roque growled. 

Pooch knocked Jake hard in the shoulder as they prepared to drop, giving him an encouraging look. “Don’t try to one-up the boss, Roque,” he called over the roar of the wind as Roque muscled the side door open mid-flight. “Undermines his authority.”

“Shut the fuck up and drop,” Roque grunted back. And then did just that.

They dropped fast and silent, in a group, more than a mile out from the north end of the canyon. The sun was just starting to make its way toward the mountains and the shadows would probably provide them some good shelter when they dug into their positions. Jake checked his equipment: rifle, pistol, mk-153, ammo, missiles… Weighed a freaking ton, but he might just need all of it.

“All right,” Clay said quietly, garnering everyone’s attention despite the volume. “Roque, you’re north, Pooch, east, Jensen and I’ll take south and west.” They all nodded. They’d been over this before. “Check in when you’re dug in. Offensive starts on my mark.”

“Home by bedtime,” Roque murmured.

Clay snorted. “Your mouth to God’s ears, Roque.”

Jake and Clay ran side by side, silent. Pooch and Roque had run the other way and Jake figured they had to be nearing their positions by now.

“Oh lookie here, boys!” Roque came over the radio after a long minute, causing both of them to slow down at the sarcastic tone. “Looks like intel’s wrong again.”

“Why does he always manage to make that sound like  _ my _ fault?” Jake murmured, not engaging his radio.

Clay smirked. “What do you see, Roque?”

“Couple more tents. Few more transports. No idea how many more men.” 

Jake exchanged a dubious look with Clay, and shrugged. 

“We proceed?” Clay asked, though Jake could see on his face that it was not so much a question.

Roque made a rude noise. “Sure, why not?”

“In place,” Pooch came over the line. “Are we sure we’re sure?” he asked after a moment.

Clay shook his head and started running again. Jake kept pace.

“Sure as we ever are,” Clay assured them.

Jake snorted. “Well, that’s comforting.”

The two soldiers split ways about a quarter mile from the south end of the canyon, Jake giving his boss a salute as he turned away. 

“I meant what I said, Jensen,” Clay said over the radio, running on toward his own position. “Head in the game.”

“Yes, sir,” Jensen agreed. He ignored the voice in that head that reminded him how much more in the game he was when Cougar was around. But still…. He had a good feeling about this one. Like everything was going to be all right if they could just take this fucker down.

He ran hard the last quarter mile, fetching up in a small divot at the edge of the canyon.

“Pick your targets,” Clay announced, still running for his own place from the sound of him.

“Tower one in sights and awaiting orders,” Pooch murmured over the radio. 

Jake looked down into the canyon; half of the place was in darkness, half in blinding sunlight, but his eyes adjusted quickly.  _ Yeah,  _ he thought, tilting his head with a shrug. That was a lot more than a dozen people. Someone else had obviously moved in since the last surveillance sweep.

What they needed was an equalizer... He looked around at the nearest tents and smiled, raising his rifle and watching through the sight as a small group of men unloaded ordinance into the large tent he’d already identified on the satellite picture.

“Dump in crosshairs,” he said quietly, setting his rifle aside and using his missile launcher to line up a shot on the munitions tent. “Sorry, Roque. The big boom boom is mine.”

“Just don’t blow your own ass up,” Roque grated good naturedly.

“Cut the chatter,” Clay commanded. “In place. Fire on my mark.”

**********

It had clearly been hours since he’d been moved, but he kept floating in and out, the heat and pain and days of almost nothing in his system weakening him more and more as the ordeal went on.

He was going to fry. Right here, not a couple of hundred yards from that freezing vat of water that he was actually missing at the moment. And of course, he’d been right in his calculations—he might suffocate on his own bloody pant leg before he boiled, because there was just no room to move. He was curled forward over his folded legs, his back brushing the burning hot door above him. No amount of pushing against it had been able to pop the lock, though the bullet in his leg was making sure he couldn’t put his whole weight into it.

There was a guard out there anyway—he could hear the guy scuffling around. He’d never be able to mount an attack on him. No point in breaking out if he was just going to be shot dead as soon as he tasted freedom.

“Shit.”

But the place was tiny, and he didn’t do tiny. He did big open spaces or sniper’s nests or… anything but a little burning box in the middle of the desert. He was going to die here, in short order, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He tried to control his breathing, but he knew the panic would get to him sooner or later. He needed  _ out _ !

He bunched the muscles in his legs again, ignoring the pain and the smell of fresh blood and the fact that that asshole was standing guard right outside. He panted, and tried desperately to stop himself from doing it. Pushing on the door only brought more pain and he dropped back down, letting the panic take over because he just didn’t have the balls to fight it anymore.

_ So, maybe sooner _ , he told himself wryly, the self-deprecating humor following him back into the void...

He didn’t even hear the loud thump of his guard hitting the ground outside twenty minutes later, nor the crunch of boots as a white-clad assassin slipped into camp...

*********

“Show time, boys,” Clay murmured, taking his shot.

*********

The oven around him shook, hard, and he cried out in pain as he was jerked out of stupor by the motion. He should move, he thought feverishly. Should get out—maybe the explosion had shaken the door loose?

He bunched his muscles again, knowing this was the last time he’d have the strength to try this. He surged hard against the door, his legs pushing for all they were worth as his back burned through his torn and trashed shirt. Panic ripped a cry from him as he made one last ditch effort.

It wasn’t enough, he knew, as he collapsed back in on himself. Was never going to be enough.  _ Dying in an oven in the desert, half a world from home. _

The pain and exhaustion and heat rose up and covered him over.

************

“That was  _ fun _ !” Jake crowed over the radio, watching the munitions tent take out the tent next to it while it burned. A good number of men were down for the count as well.  _ Jake Jensen, Equalizer. _

“You had the easy part,” Pooch bitched. “Sniper— _ fuck! _ —sniper tower down. Finally.” 

“Taking fire,” Roque growled shortly. 

Jake ducked as a rifle shot pinged off the rock above him. He trained his sights on the canyon below to find a clump of men aiming his way. “Yeah, you’re not that special, Roque. They’re aiming for all of us.”

“Keep it up,” Clay murmured, his own fire heard over the radio link. “Munitions tent is screwing them up.”

“Screwing me up too,” Pooch called. “Can’t see much through the smoke.”

Clay’s voice was a calming influence. “Keep it up.”

But then Jake’s field radio exploded from a lucky shot from  _ somewhere _ and all calm went out the window. 

“Fuck!” 

He slid back, away from the edge of the cliff, his left arm and leg stinging from the shrapnel. He turned, trying to get a look at himself and the damage. No blood, thank God, but… 

Something caught his eye, on the other side of the south opening to the canyon. A body in colorful robes lay dead, tucked into the shadows by the approach to the canyon. 

“Anybody take out the guy at the door?”  He ripped the earpiece out of his ear as it erupted in static. Must have been blown when the field radio went. Just his luck.

He moved back farther from his previous position, heading toward the bundle of cloth and dead body. There was a round… door… in the ground? 

“The hell is that?” 

**********

“Stop firing, idiots!” 

Carlos Alvarez ducked behind the one remaining building in the camp, as flak from another explosion nicked his head and neck. He thanked the long white robes he’d acquired when he started this mission, as they prevented any further damage, but he hadn’t grabbed a turban and he could feel blood trickling down from his hair. 

He’d finally tracked down Farsook last week and had been following him from afar ever since, finally trailing him to this hole in the wall encampment. He’d killed the one guard at the mouth of the gorge and had planned to sneak through to find a spot to nest and wait for evening, when the entire place had lit up. 

And now he was in the thick of it, against his will, and going to be killed by what were probably US forces. 

“ ** _STOP!_ ** ”

The cry in Pashto had him spinning to his left before the Afghani fired. The move likely saved his life, but Carlos felt the bullet enter his right shoulder and blow him back anyway. He tried to keep hold of his pistol, tried to fire at his attacker, but it became a moot point as the man’s head exploded under someone else’s rifle shot. 

***********

“Fuck, Clay!” Pooch couldn’t believe it. “It’s Cougar.”

“Say again!?” Clay called over the firefight.

“Cougar,” Pooch repeated, tightening the sight on his scope and looking right at Alvarez’s face. His brown skin and dark hair worked beautifully to camouflage him in his white robes, but it was him. “No idea what the fuck he’s doing down there, but he’s down there. I just blew a hole in a guy trying to take him out.”

“Jensen, get him on the radio,” Clay ordered, a lightness in his voice. “Go broadband and figure out what frequency he’s on.”

Pooch watched Cougar get himself together, blood on the shoulder of his robe and dots of it on his face, and head off toward the north side of the camp. Pooch waited for the fuss he knew Jensen was going to kick up at their sniper’s miraculous appearance. And waited. And waited.

“Shit,” Clay whispered. “Anyone have eyes on Jensen?”

Pooch was already scanning the south cliff with his scope. He settled on a smoking black box and focused tighter. “Fuck. Field radio’s a bust.” 

“So where’s the kid?” Roque demanded. “I got—shit. Almost got Cougar. Boy’s moving toward  _ something. _ ”

“Get this done quickly, men,” Clay ordered. “Without losing anybody to friendly fire, please.”

***********

Jake slid the last eight feet of the cliff, landing hard and looking around carefully. The firefight was up on the north side of the camp now, as he’d kind of blown the south side all to hell. 

The round thing in the middle of the road was definitely a door. With a lock.

Locks kept things in, didn’t they? Jake wanted to see what—or more likely  _ who _ —was in there. Bolt holes were kind of a thing around here, after all. No telling which of the Taliban’s finest might be in there.

He reached the door and made short work of the lock, prying the rusted old thing apart with his bowie knife to avoid tipping anyone off. He flipped the door up, gun drawn, and froze as it clanged open. Not a bolt hole but a cage, with heat and blood stink rising from it. The body, dressed in Army fatigues, lay limp and unmoving, its long hair and wiry back blocking the rest of it from view. That hair… 

“Cougar?” 

But it wasn’t Cougar at all. As he reached down into the tiny space, Jake could see that the hair was lighter, bushier… And the guy was breathing, which was a hell of a bonus. 

He got both hands in there and dragged the man out, pulling him quickly into the dark shadows by the side of the road. Guy couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds and Jake could feel the bones jutting through the ratty fatigues.

***********

Carlos was just plain pissed at this point. One minute he had Farsook in his sights, and the next, another explosion hit, knocking him to the side and setting his shoulder on fire again. By the time he looked up again, the warlord had disappeared. On instinct, Cougar pulled out his short-range radio and turned it on. It flared to life before he could push the Talk button.

“—do you read?”

Carlos looked up at the cliffs above him and pressed the button. “Pooch?” he asked, astonished. Out of habit, he’d left the damn thing set to the Losers’ frequency.

“Thank God,” Pooch replied. “Damn good to hear your voice, Cougar.”

Carlos ducked around the side of one of the remaining tents, watching a single man break away from the group fighting the men on the ridge— _ Carlos’s _ men on the ridge—and head toward the south. Not Farsook, but clearly moving with a purpose in mind.

“Stop trying to kill me,” Carlos muttered into the radio.

“Wouldn’t shoot at you if we’d known you were there,” Roque replied. Carlos wasn’t entirely sure of that, but he was too intent on following the solitary soldier. 

“If you get an eye on Jensen, give a holler,” Clay said, the words freezing something in Carlos’s belly. “Damn kid’s gone AWOL again.”

**********

Jake pushed the hair out of the guy’s face to see his eyes open to slits and his face slack. Jake patted his face gently.

“Devin Tanner, Sergeant, 45607,” the soldier mumbled drunkenly. He had a hell of a thick Texas accent and his words were slurred. Definitely not all there.

Jake snorted, keeping his eyes open for anyone escaping the carnage inside the camp. “Jacob Jensen,” he replied softly, taking his charge’s pulse and finding it too fast. “Captain. 39459. Nice to meet you.”

Devin Tanner shook himself at the unexpected answer and blinked, adrenaline seeming to clear his mind a little as he looked up into Jake’s face. “What?”

“Yeah, small world, huh?” Jake said quickly, digging his extra firearm out and gauging whether Tanner would be fit to use it. “But, you know, since we’re here, I figure we might as well rescue you. You look like you need rescuing.”

Tanner chuckled at that, whining at the pain it caused him and then coughing to boot. A wet, crackling cough. 

“Someone’s been breathing at the trough, I hear,” Jake whispered, holding him up as he wheezed. He’d done the dunking thing before. Really sucked. They were way too exposed out here. “You don’t by any chance have a radio on you, do you?”

“ **Jensen!** ”

The voice was one Jake would obey from his grave, the tone in it sharp and scared. Jake’s rifle came up as he dropped the extra gun and spun around, firing at the man coming up behind him. The Taliban fighter fell dead twenty feet from him, but Jake wasn’t even looking at him. 

“Cougar, what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, smiling delightedly at his best fucking friend in the entire world. 

“Trying to finish my objective, no thanks to you.” Cougar was pissed. And hurt. And bleeding. 

And Jake really wanted to hug him.

“Al Rashti was your objective?” That seemed really unlikely. “Why the hell did they send  _ us _ after him, too, then?”

“Not al Rashti,” Cougar denied, dropping to kneel beside Jake and Tanner. “Farsook. I followed him into camp this afternoon.” He sniffed in anger. “He disappeared in the confusion.” Cougar lifted Tanner’s hair away from his face to get a better look at the semi-conscious man. “Who is this?”

“Guy that needs rescuing, I guess,” Tanner murmured, looking marginally more with it. “Anybody got some water?”

Jake chuckled, noting the absence of gunfire. Finally. He slipped the canteen off of his pack and opened it, holding it for the exhausted soldier. Guy looked like he was barely out of high school, but he had to be older, right? 

“Do you have a radio, Coug?” he asked quietly, as the kid drank the water slowly. Jake cut him off quick. The guy was made of paper right now, and over-hydrating was as bad as under. “Clay’s on channel 53 and probably gonna kill me for losing mine again.”

“Not good for a communications officer,” Cougar agreed with a smile. He laid a hand on Jake’s shoulder for a second before digging out his radio, and Jake just reveled in the touch. 

Coug at his side and a rescue to boot. He  _ knew _ this was going to be a good op!

“I’m really glad you’re back, Coug,” he said, heartfelt and even a little sappy.

“Clay?” Cougar called, not replying with equal sap, because Cougar was awesome and let the moment pass without making a big deal. “I have eyes on Jensen. South entrance.”

“And friend!” Jake put in before Cougar could move his finger off the button.

“And friend?” Roque called over the line. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Regroup on their position,” Clay responded, not rising to Jake’s bait.

Jake looked down at the man in his lap, who was trying to stay alert and failing completely. Bleeding, exhausted, and trashed… 

“Means we better hope there’s a transport we didn’t blow up.” Tanner was obviously very much  _ not _ up to hiking out to the nearest SpecOps hidey hole, which, if memory served, was about 10 miles north, up in a cave in the foothills.

Cougar had a hand to his own bleeding shoulder, his eyes squinting in pain. He probably wasn’t up to it, either. “We just call for extraction, yes?” he asked.

Jake shrugged, thinking of the smoldering wreck of a long-range unit up on the cliff. “Yeah, about that—”

The desert around them had been completely silent after the firefight, so the sound of boots moving along the rocks was louder than it might have been otherwise. Jake and Cougar both raised their weapons and aimed at the sound, relaxing as they saw Clay hurrying down the ridge on the other side of the canyon.

“Cougar, you crashed our party!” Clay called as he hopped down to the canyon floor, sounding satisfied.

He was halfway across the open space when a shot rang out and he dropped like a stone.

“CLAY!” Jake and Cougar both looked around for the shooter.

But it was Tanner, using the pistol Jake had dropped, who made the shot. A tall thin man fell sideways, slumping out of his hiding place amid the wreckage by the munitions tent. The bullet had hit the guy’s forehead dead center.

“Farsook,” Cougar growled.

Jake didn’t care who the hell it was. He ran out to Clay, rolling their colonel over and fearing the worst. He was pleasantly surprised when Clay came up griping.

“I’ll never bad-mouth this damn body armor again,” Clay swore, reaching up to rub his unbloodied chest. “God damn, that hurt!”

Jake looked over at Tanner, who was watching them with a little satisfied smile. The injured man had dropped the gun after making the shot, and Jake doubted he’d be able to pick it up again. 

“Nice shot, man,” he called. 

Cougar just growled again and turned to the erstwhile captive. “You took my shot,” he said quietly, but loud enough for both Jake and Clay to chuckle at his indignation.

Tanner’s eyes closed and he rolled onto his back. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Didn’t sound sorry at all, actually.

**********

Pooch rolled the beat up transport to the edge of the ridge, ten miles north of the smoking ruin that had been al Rashti’s camp. Clay jumped out of the front seat, drawing his sidearm. 

“I’ll check the cave.” Clay was moving stiffly, his cracked ribs obviously hurting more than he was willing to show.

Pooch watched him climb up toward the bolt hole. Army had a hundred of them up here. A cot or two and an emergency kit, food, water, encrypted field radio if you had the key. They hadn’t had to use one of these places yet since they’d dropped in-country six months ago, but they sure as hell could use it now. 

All in all, though, it could’ve been worse.

Pooch and Roque had arrived at the south end just in time to miss the fun, though Roque got to light in to Clay, who was still lying on the ground, nursing the armor burn. Roque always had to blow off steam when one of them got hurt. Calmed him down.

What calmed Pooch down was having Cougar with them. He’d given their sniper a bone-crushing hug at first sight, backing off at the sniper’s yelp of pain and getting to work on Cougar’s shoulder wound. Wasn’t bad, but he needed stitches and maybe a couple of days in a bed.

The other sniper they found was going to need a lot more than that. He was skinny as a rail, had been worked over more than once in recent history, had a through-and-through in his thigh, and his breathing was for shit. You had to love the Taliban’s way of giving a guy pneumonia in the middle of an Afghan summer. Poor guy had barely been conscious by the time they got him settled in the backseat of the one vehicle they hadn’t blown up. He’d slept the whole way here.

“Sort of hate to wake him,” Jensen said quietly. “He looks even younger like this.”

Pooch turned in his seat to see the refugee sandwiched between J and the also-sleeping Cougar. Jensen was right. With Tanner sleeping and relaxed, Pooch realized the kid couldn’t have been more than 23 or 24. Cougar looked younger when he slept, too. Less of the weight of the world on him. Pooch figured Coug had earned a rest if he’d been hunting Farsook this whole time. Was a damn miracle to have him back. 

“There’s provisions in the cave,” Roque reminded him, climbing out of the third-row seat, over Jensen, and out the door. “Ain’t got shit in here.”

“Logic,” Jensen conceded. The discussion had woken Cougar, who watched as Jensen carefully shook the kid next to him. “Hey Tanner,” he called softly. “Wakey wakey.”

“Eggs and bac-y,” Tanner murmured sarcastically. He blinked at the chuckles they all let out, looking around to figure out where they were. He clearly couldn’t do it.

“Bolt hole,” Cougar explained shortly.

Tanner nodded, looking out the open door at Roque, as he climbed up to meet Clay, who was waving from the top of the ridge. “Don’t think I can climb up there.”

J shrugged. “I’d be surprised if you could climb out of the truck at this point.” He slid out the door and stood waiting. “Don’t worry, kid. We got you.”

It was all kinds of weird to hear Jensen, of all people, call somebody “kid”. But it wasn’t weird at all to see him and Cougar maneuvering the guy gently between them. Regular Boy Scouts, the both of them.

“Gonna hide the transpo,” Pooch called out, turning the engine over again. “Back in five.”

Jake waved the arm that wasn’t holding up the kid, And Pooch watched them in the rearview mirror as he drove back down toward the overhang he’d seen on their way here.

Job well done, damn it.

************

Clay dropped his pack and moved to the back of the cave, pulling away the camo curtain that hid a large storage area. He grabbed a lantern and fired it up, setting it on the floor as he surveyed what they had to work with. Three cots and a few field rolls besides. Medkit, water, supplies…

“Gas, food, and lodging,” he murmured, a smile on his exhausted face. “Outstanding.”

“Where the hell are the MREs?” Roque demanded, the second he walked in. Clay popped open a foot locker full of food and threw a random foil package at his second in command. He reached into the alcove and grabbed one of the cots.

“Wouldn’t want to get the wounded squared away first, would you?” he asked sarcastically. He unfolded the cot and placed it squarely in the middle of the cave. No need for that kid Tanner to feel any more closed in than he was already going to. Clay had done the box in the ground thing, and it sucked.

Roque snorted. “Jensen and Cougar are babysitting the kid,” he replied, digging into the meal. “Damn, is this chicken a la king? Hate that shit.”

Clay shook his head, looking up as Jake led the two wounded snipers into the cave. Cougar was hurting, but it couldn’t be as bad as the blood all over his robe would make you think. Clay had been with his boys long enough to know when an injury was something to  _ really _ worry about. While the bullet hadn’t done their man Cougar any good, it didn’t look like it was going to kill him either.

Still, it was a good thing Alvarez had their rescued soldier to take care of. Seemed to be taking his mind off of his own problems. Tanner looked like the nap on the way here had helped a little, but he was shaking with the effort of just getting here. Jensen and Cougar laid him down on the cot, and Jensen headed for the supply closet.

“We’ll get you a cot, too, Cougar,” he called, spirits high, though he must have been flagging himself.

Clay headed him off. “Get the field radio fired up,” he commanded, a cot already in hand. “I’ve got them.”

Jensen nodded. He glanced at Roque, who’d plopped down on the ground and was eating his way through his dinner. Clay knew what Roque’s problem was—the two of them had seen each other blown hell a few times in the last couple of decades and it never failed to piss Roque off and hype up his asshole gene for a while. The boys still hadn’t figured it out, but Clay knew they’d get it eventually.

“Don’t get up, man,” Jensen sniped. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your meal or anything.”

Roque ignored him.

Pooch chose that moment to appear at the mouth of the cave. He clapped his hands loudly. “Where the hell’s the medkit? I need to get sewing.”

************

Vin Tanner woke some time in the middle of the night. The day—hell, a whole lot of days—had been a total blur and, for a long minute, he just lay there, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. 

He’d been found, right? He felt less like shit, and his stomach ached from the nutritive gel Pooch had made him suck down instead of the too-familiar pain of no food at all. Those were good signs, he guessed. The place he was in was dark and cool and full of a lot of people he couldn’t see. And it was big. The sense of lots and lots of space put him more at ease.

A cave, he remembered. A bolt hole. He let his mind fill with vague images of Pooch tending to his leg, rolling around with the taste of that crappy calorie replacement gel and the repeated sensation of water—to drink, not to drown in… Somehow they’d placed his cot in the center of the space, so the walls couldn’t close in on him too much.

Apparently, he was going to make it.

He would have died if Jensen hadn’t found that ground cell. They’d’ve blown the place to hell and booked it out to their extraction point, never knowing he was even there, and he’d’ve died while the whole encampment decomposed around him.

Just the thought of taking his last breaths in that place was enough to get his hands shaking. He slid them behind his head to still the movement and stared into the black above him.

Mortality sucked. 

A boot scraped on rock and his head jerked up toward the sound. He held in his pain with an effort.

He didn’t need to bother. A small redlight LED barely illuminated Jacob Jensen as he headed into the cave from the outside. Vin heard the man’s boot connect lightly with a body laid out on the ground, and the body grunted.

“Up and at ‘em, Pooch,” Jensen called softly. “Your turn at guard duty. Such as it is.”

The green-hued nightlight of a watch briefly flashed in the night. “When’s extraction again?” Pooch asked sleepily. 

“0430,” Jensen murmured. “Got a couple of hours before we have to wake them all.” He looked up, the red of his flashlight drifting over Vin. Jensen smiled. “Looks like someone’s already up.”

The shadow of Pooch rose from the floor and Vin thought the transport officer turned toward him. “Get some more sleep, kid,” Pooch counseled. Vin heard him pick up his weapon as he headed for the outside. “You’re gonna be a while getting over this one.”

Vin’s eyes found the ceiling again. Yeah. He listened to Jensen just stand there for a long minute.

“Need anything?” Jensen asked. He sounded a lot like Jimmy, all caring and optimism. Vin’s best friend was out there somewhere, hunting his own target. If he wasn’t dead already. Surrounded by the five men who’d saved him, Vin was feeling pretty damned alone.

“Home’d be nice,” he replied, not liking the melancholy in his own voice.

Jensen moved silently to sit on the edge of the cot next to Vin’s. Cougar was there, sleeping soundly with his shoulder wrapped tight. 

“Your team’ll be glad to see you,” Jensen said finally, his hand on Cougar’s chest, like he was making sure the two of them were still connected. “Team’s like a home, kind of.”

Vin smiled at the philosophy of that. “Yeah. Reckon it is.” 

Jensen rose. “Pooch was right,” he said, heading for the bedroll the other man had vacated. “Better get your strength back.”

Vin nodded. “Hey Jacob?” he called, as he heard the man bedding down.

The was a smile in the voice in the darkness. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Vin hoped his voice didn’t sound as tight as his throat felt. “I really didn’t want to die out there alone.”

“Nobody does,” Jensen replied. “Kind of why we do what we do, right?” There was a long silence. “And the name’s Jake.”

“Well, thanks, Jake.” 

Because Vin really couldn’t say it too many times.

************

The Losers’ helicopter touched down at the main US base in the region exactly eighteen days after Vin had been caught in that firefight and captured by al Rashti’s men. A med team had met the chopper and raced Vin into the medical building to start poking at him immediately. 

Jimmy Hanratty had waltzed in as soon as Vin was settled in a bed. His wide smile was teasing, but Vin could see the relief thick in his eyes.

“So, no luck on taking down Gullah, huh?” he asked.

Vin smirked. “Got a little distracted.” His throat caught on him and he hacked, wet and sick. Damn antibiotics could kick in any time. 

Jimmy had sobered at the obvious sign of Vin’s captivity. “I’m really glad you’re back,” he said simply.

Vin’s mind flashed back to Jake saying the same damn thing to Cougar, out there in the desert, and he held up his hand, grinning when Jimmy clasped it and squeezed. Vin wondered if the two of them would still be partners, years from now, like Jake and Cougar…

“Glad to be home,” Vin replied. Because Jensen was right—team  _ was _ a kind of family, wasn’t it?

He was a miracle, said the doctors. He’d lost twenty pounds in captivity, and for some reason they thought that should’ve killed him. Made him feel like shit, sure, but if he couldn’t stand to lose a little weight, what the hell kind of a ranger did that make him, right?

“A very human one,” had been Dr. Talesian’s answer. He’d been oh-so serious when he laid out Vin’s recovery plan. What he’d gone through was nothing to take lightly, and he had some hoops to jump through before he could move on. 

There was the psych work, of course, and he was actually glad of that. Flashbacks were a bitch, and he was hoping that talking about it might help some. Physical therapy, of course. His muscles were for crap right now and his lungs, while recovering from the pneumonia just fine, weren’t up to much in the way of exertion.  _ Way _ too much food—complete with supplemental shakes that tasted like something he’d find in the gutter instead of a hospital. And finally, a stern warning that, if they didn’t see some serious progress quickly, he’d be shipped to Germany at best, and back to the States at worst.

So he ate the damn food and lifted the damn weights and drank the damn shakes. He made a lot of headway in the psych department and figured that was the most important part in the long run. Because his team was waiting on him, and he couldn’t let them down by breaking down every time he saw a bucket of water.

The docs must have approved. Eighteen days after his rescue, Vin got his hands on a rifle again for the first time. His leg still hurt and he limped a bit, but he’d put on ten pounds and been cleared to start trying to recertify.

“You ready for this, Vin?” Jimmy asked, as they made their way across base toward the firing range. Vin wouldn’t be shooting to test today. It was just a rehearsal. But he was keen to get back into it. 

“Reckon the best thing is to get back on the horse, right?”

Jimmy slapped him on the back. “Depends on how many times the damn nag throws you,” he replied.

Vin grinned broadly at the collection of men who were taking up the majority of the shooting range as they entered the open air pavillion with the row of paper soldiers at one end.

“Look,” he called out, knocking an elbow into Jimmy’s side as the two of them approached. “If it isn’t that bunch of losers I met a couple of weeks ago.”

“Bunch of losers who saved your ass, Tanner,” Pooch replied brightly, turning from the range and clasping wrists with the younger man. He looked Vin up and down and cocked his head. “Not bad, kid. You clean up good.”

Vin smirked, but his words were genuine. “Thanks to you.”

“Sorry,” Jake broke in, “ _ who _ found the damn hole in the first place?” He grinned, shaking Vin’s hand. He looked at Jimmy curiously and Vin introduced his friend around, starting with Jake and ending with Cougar.

“How’d your part in Operation Banjaxed go?” Jimmy asked as he shook the older sniper’s hand.

Cougar glared at Vin, who fought not to smirk, and Jimmy startled a little. Jake tried to smooth the moment over.

“Don’t mind him,” Jake assured Jimmy. “Cougar just doesn’t like someone else poaching on his land.”

“I didn’t have to take the shot,” Vin replied mildly. “Could’ve let him fire off a few more rounds.”

Clay rubbed at his chest as if it could still be bothering him. “Yeah, then where would we be, kid, am I right?”

“Why’d you called it Operation Banjaxed?” Pooch wanted to know.

“Banjaxed is like, screwed, fucked…” Jimmy cycled his hand in the air. “You know, banjaxed?”

Vin snorted. “It’s an Irish thing.” But the word really did describe the whole damn affair, didn’t it?

Cougar was still in a sling, and Vin eyed it speculatively and changed the subject. “Pretty sure you shouldn’t be firing a rifle,” he said. “Gonna mess up your shoulder.” A sniper with a bum arm was not sniper at all.

“Cougar’s not so good at following directions—” Jake began.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Clay put in quietly, reloading as he spoke.

“—and he assures us he’s ready to start light firearm training,” Jake finished.

“No matter what the doctors say,” Pooch tacked on.

Vin met Cougar’s eyes, and the challenge he saw there. “Huh,” he murmured, putting his bag on the ground beside him and leaning down to dig through it. “Light arms…” He pulled out his Sig Sauer. “Pistols?” he asked leadingly.

Cougar smiled like a shark. “Best of twenty.”

Pooch moved off his own alley, so Vin and Cougar could shoot side by side. Jimmy and Jake stood watching, clearly enjoying the show.

“I got ten on Vin,” Jimmy announced.

Jake smirked. “I’ll take that. I could use all the money I can get. Got a baby niece to spoil back home.”

_ Home, _ Vin thought suddenly. This was as  _ home _ as he was going to get, he supposed. He looked over at Jimmy and winked. “Reckon she might have to do without Uncle Jake’s money for a bit,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, yeah, enough trash talk,” Roque ordered. “Just shoot already.”

Surrounded by friends and comrades, Vin and Cougar did just that. 

And if neither of them was exactly at his best, at least they each had family around to look the other way.

**********

The end

  
  



End file.
